


a collection of cowboy drabbles

by Peqoud



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Country & Western, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Gay, Homoerotica, Light Angst, M/M, POV, POV Second Person, Western, queen of the rodeeooo, sort of "intricate rituals to touch the skin of other men" type of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peqoud/pseuds/Peqoud
Summary: for the cowboy in your heart and the one you want sleepin' beside you
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	a collection of cowboy drabbles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [couriersexy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/couriersexy/gifts).



> you're the manwhore of the mojave

The fire's warmer than usual tonight. Your companion sits beside you, far enough that you can stretch your leg out to them but not close enough that you can kiss them. You swallow something back in your throat to say something, after a length of silence that separates God from man, but nothing comes out. They nudge your boot with the tip of theirs, and their gaze is knowing.  
You nod at them, roll a cough in your throat. Your eyes catch a sight of the sky and while you've never been able to see the beauty in anything but them, you drawl out "Stars're real pretty tonight" and forget how to breathe.

\---

You've read a story like this; some dime novel you picked up from a store in a town you two once stopped in. You never let your partner see it, but it followed the story of two travellers on the road. During the day, they were foolhardy cowboys roaming far across the plains; at night, they were lonesome lovers sharing a drink underneath the endless sky. Not that you were in love with them, of course, or that you longed to be the one who got to love them.  
But as you stare at them from across the bar something flutters in your stomach. The way they tip their hat and take it off in politeness, the way their two fingers push at the quarter on the counter, the way they share the exact same look in their eyes as they watch you from over their glass. Something stiffens in you, and you turn away. You know you're blushing, and they know it too.  
As you wrap your leg around the other and rearrange your elbows on the counter, you know your dime novel ends better.

\---

It's strange.  
You're riding your horse next to theirs, for a change, and neither of you know why. It's not unwelcomed - in fact, they're happy enough to ride close enough that your boots touch theirs.  
It's strange because you like it. Usually you were in front, leading the posse of two through danger, through clear streams and campsites. And they were at the back; happy to follow, matching your likeness of silence to please you, protecting you from your blindspot.  
But today you felt like joining them, and for a moment you were equals - which isn't to say you believed yourself to be above them. They knew the sort of reverence you held in your gaze when looking at them wasn't reserved for prayer, for the Father and His Holy compatriots. They knew it was for them, and only them. You never were a religious man, but for a moment they made you believe.  
You're locked into your thoughts, eyebrows knit tight, as they swipe a hand through your horse's mane. It's not intimate, per se, but it's caring.  
You mumble a "She likes you" as you tip your hat towards a stranger passing by.  
"Same could be said about you." There's multiple ways you can interpret that, and you both know the one you settle on as you go quiet again. You bask in the newfound silence.

\---

"Sun's hot today." They breathe with some difficulty. Manual labour comes with the job but that doesn't mean it's pleasant.  
"Hm?" You crane your neck towards your friend. Their skin's glistening with sweat and you're briefly jealous of the Sun getting to burn their shoulders. "Oh, 'guess so. You can take a break if y'like." You can see their reflection in the water bucket you're carrying as they moved beside you. They're shaking their head, and after a moment or so they're brushing their hands against yours.  
They take the bucket from your hand with a gruff. You know you have to let go for them to take it, but the feeling of their coarse fingers against yours drives you mad and you forget. "Nah, 'd rather help ya'."  
You're thankful for it. You pull your hat off your head and snug it over theirs as they begin to move to the trough. The feeling of their hair against the back of your calloused palm is mesmerising. "...Should keep the Sun off ya'." Your hands come to your hips and you breathe out, exhausted. You're sure you see a smile on their lips as they move away.

\---

"Gotcha somethin'."  
You hadn't any change for a hotel that night, and for once in your life you were thankful. They had replaced your sheets with something a lot more richer to sleep on, a kind gesture, though you couldn't help but notice theirs were still thread-torn. You don't question it, and let the feeling of dread settle in your stomach.  
You tilt your head up at them, as your thumb hooks on top of the small package. It's wrapped in a thin paper and your curiosity grows; it's two things, really. You don't start to unwrap it until they nod their head to the side and lie down next to you, arms behind their head. The closeness bothers you in a way that a child can lose her mother in a sea of people; only this time you can see her, but you can't call out to her, can't grab her hand. You couldn't touch them.  
"Ya' like it?" They inquired. Their voice was looking for something, and as it ran through your head again and again you could tell their confidence was faux.  
You hadn't noticed that you had stripped the paper clean off.  
With the light of the fire, you could make out two men on the cover of what you figured was a penny book. Obscuring their torsos lay a bar of chocolate that your thumb sunk into.  
They shuffled closer to you as you inspected the novel, sitting themself upright. "Figured that I should get you it. Y'like readin', 'n'all." Maybe they hadn't meant to pick up a romance, or perhaps it was intentional, but as they moved to point towards the taller man on the cover you couldn't seem to care. "And, 'a thought he looked like you."  
There was a measly little laugh from your throat, and you could see the surprise in their body from hearing it - shocked-still as if a bullet had soared over both your heads. They smiled, or at least you thought so.  
"...Thanks."  
They hummed approvingly, and turned onto their side. They were facing you with their eyes closed, and they looked like they were about to fall asleep. "No worries."  
"'Should do somethin' for you sometime. In return."  
"Nah." They yawned, and it reminded you of an old dog that was never not looking for a place to lie in the Sun. "Nah, y'company's enough." 

\---

How long had it been since you began denying yourself of pleasure? Of love, more so. Of your wants and needs and the ignorance of the aching in your jaw that called for their lips against it.  
You could live without human desire but not of their face.  
When reality came to you, you were standing in a general store. In your hands you held a can of coffee grounds and a cartridge. Outside they sat on a little bench below the window, and you could make out their hat as they leaned against the building.  
You'd taken the train into town. It wasn't often that you liked parting from your horse (it offered a quick getaway in case anything turned sour) but they insisted. They assured you nothing would go wrong, and when they spoke to you in that soft voice of theirs you were powerless against it. So you followed, as you would any other time.  
The aching comes back and spreads to your head as night falls. You're sharing a bed and it feels like way too much and your skin is burning and they know it. It was the last room available and their voice pertained no sign of annoyance or even fondness as they agreed. Them sharing a room, a bed, with you, was simply a matter of life; all feelings aside for a moment of peace.  
You know they aren't sleeping. They're pretending, waiting for you to drift off first. Even in the privacy of your own room you both fail to throw out the rhythm of the watcher.  
You go to open your mouth to speak but they're tongue's too fast and you're tied. "Y'know what might help?"  
"Hm?"  
"If ya' read me one-of-ya' stories."  
It's not a half bad idea. Maybe it'll move out your jaw, help the joints crack in your bones and end the dull ache. But at the same time- "...Too tired to read. Sorry." Besides that, they were across the room with the rest of your stuff, and you couldn't dare pull yourself away from your elbow touching theirs.  
"'S okay." The room's dark and you can't see them very well and you're grateful for it. "What if ya' just tell me one? Make one up."  
You sighed, but you didn't mind the request. You may have both been grown, well too old for whispering childish goodnights, and yet you still felt allured by it.  
There was a gentle thrum in your chest as you recounted a tail of something you saw in your youth; a bank robbery you couldn't legally say your place in. And yet you did, and you found their head resting against your shoulder as they drifted off to the sounds of truth.

\---

They have a brush in their hands and an apron around their waist as they tend to the horses in the stable. Everyone knows they aren't a stable hand but no one questions it; the horses are happy enough, and the braids in their manes were fine. You thought many a time about growing your hair out to have them do the same to you.  
"They seem to like you."  
They were startled, and you watched for a quick second as they dropped what was in their hand and reached for the ghostly revolver in their bandolier (they never carried while working). You knew that if they did you'd have a sleek barrel pointed at your temple.  
"Oh, Christ, sorry." You aren't sure what they're apologising for but they seem startled. You wondered if they were going over what would've happened if they shot you, accidently or as a warning. "I'm not-" they breathe in, "-it's a habit, I wouldn't ever--"  
"You're okay." Taking a step closer to them, and then another, and then a few more until you're beside them. Your hand soothed over their shoulder. You were separated by the swinging fence. "You're fine. I trust you to shoot me if need be."  
They can't tell if you're joking. Your eyes tell them the truth but they can't bring themself to look. "I-I wouldn't." They move to pick up the dropped brush.  
"'Course you would."  
They hummed disapprovingly, and something horrid twisted in your chest. "Maybe the other way around. Dunno. You're- we're--" The horse they're tending to stomps its hooves impatiently and they pat its neck to calm it. "--I just wouldn't. End of the day."  
"O-kay." You're unsure of how to take that, even as the fence swings out and they're leaning besides you. "... What if I shot you? Would you, then?" You weren't confident about why you were prodding this further.  
"I'd have deserved it, if it's from you."

\---

Your chest high in deep water, and yet you press on. Your horses rest on the other bank and your partner's already nearing the other side when your foot slips. You catch yourself, just barely, in time to hear a "Careful."  
They're sat watching you. They're soaked to the bone and you're drawn to the outline of their chest as their shirt sticks to their skin.  
"What are we- what are we doing… again?" You ask, as if you haven't before repeatedly. Maybe you're just forgetful, and maybe you just like the sound of their voice as it ruminates over rushing water.  
"Told ya'. Collectin' watermint. They grow 'long here." They reach their hand out as you're nearing the bank, and you take it to steady yourself and sit next to them to catch your breath. "Good for cookin' with. Work wonders on sore muscles."  
You can see them getting to work as they collect the herbs, casting a quick glance towards your horses. They were as good as friends as you were.  
"...How'd they work?"  
"Can poultice 'em. Rub 'em into your skin." They liked you being curious about it. "Why? Anywhere naggin' ya'?"  
"Shoulders. Neck."  
They snicker. "Calls for a massage, that." There's a flicker to their eye anyway. "... I'll see what I can do."

\---

This isn't something you can control.  
You're getting robbed, it seems. You know you're both on horseback and have a slither of a chance to outrun them, but your friend seems dazed and you don't want to risk it.  
The most annoying part of it all, for you, is how demeaning it all is. These little gangs faired themselves to be higher than anyone else on the same food chain. So they mocked you, even as they came to take all of your valuables.  
Your hand itched at the pistol on your belt and the gang laughed. As one stepped closer to you, hand pulling towards your saddlebag, you hear your friend snarl a groan and the clinking of metal against metal. A bullet whirs past you, hits the assailant square in the temple, and in an instant your horse is pulling away.  
You can barely thumb at your trigger by the time two more are down, and your friend is urging you on. In a sick sense you know they have it under control, and you urge yourself not to look back as you guide them through a grove of trees.  
As you catch your breath and the attackers sound far out of sight, you pull into a clearing and slink yourself off your saddle. They do the same, and your ears prick to their revolver sliding snug back into their leather bandolier.  
They've sat themself down on the grass and have lit a cigarette by the time you look back at them.  
"What was that? I thought you were--"  
"Just a farmhand." You know it's not true, but the severity in their voice makes you wish it were.  
"...Sure."

\---

"You got a light?"  
You don't; someone inside offered you one and now you're regretting not picking a new box of matches up.  
You're about to shake your head when your brain works on its own, hand coming to motion them closer to your face. They've got a smoke on their lips and so did you. You tilt your head up and focus your eyes onto brushing the burning end of your smoke to their dry one.  
You can feel their gaze on your eyes and you blush. The brims of your hats create a shelter for the smoke and it hits your forehead as their cigarette goes up. They can feel your breath on their face.  
"...Thanks." They don't pull away until you nod your head to the left of you. They get the picture, and sit beside you. Your thighs and knees are locked side by side and you close your eyes and daydream of touching them with your hands stained by tobacco and blood.

\---

There's hesitation to their voice as they speak up, and you're nothing less than intrigued to listen.  
"You ever… find yourself likin' anyone?"  
Often, you do. "Elaborate."  
"Uh. Okay, like… You wanna marry someone."  
"Love?" You nod. "Well, sure." You tap your finger into your knee out of habit. "Why, you got your eye on someone?"  
Their gaze is on your shoe and you know the answer, but they lie anyway. "No. Just wonderin' what it's like."  
"Mm. Makes you think I've ever experienced it?" You dig your heel into the earth beneath you. It catches on a stone and you struggle with knocking it away.  
"You strike me as the type."  
They're not wrong, but it's not often you fall in love.


End file.
